


Holiday Secrets

by otherwiseestella



Series: The Things Q Likes [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Desperation, Dirty Talk, Feels, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Pee, Porn With Plot, Snark, Watersports, Wetting, absolute filth, happy feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7648609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwiseestella/pseuds/otherwiseestella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q has a filthy secret. Turns out Bond rather likes it. But Q's not the only one who occasionally indulges in a little desperation... </p><p>In which Bond is in Italy, Q is aware that something is the matter, and Bond fails to answer a call of nature, with rather spectacular results.</p><p>A little more porn to conclude this series. *Please don't read this if you don't like pee!*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for your years, literally years, of patience. My favourite duo, doing their favourite things. I do hope you all enjoy. :)
> 
> (un-beta'd, so if anyone would like to be an occasional beta for me, I'd be delighted.)
> 
> ((as always, very shyly, please leave kudos if you've enjoyed!))

If it weren’t for the intermittent snores, rattling him back to attention, Bond would have sworn the target was already dead. His vast mass lay unmoving on the hotel bed. Swathes of pale flesh seemed to take up the entire mattress, making it impossible to tell where the arms dealer ended and his girlfriend began.

No fun left in this one, even before the –what was it now, four hours? – he’d spent squatting in a walk-in wardrobe, peering through the keyhole.

Any sensible bloody bastard would have shot the man and retreated sharpish, straight back to the little villa they were using as a base, all tiled interiors that deflected heat, long tables and good wine.

Any bastard, that was, who hadn’t been strictly instructed to search the room without detection, this time, and whose probationary status was, whilst not discussed in the corridors, very much ongoing. Panama. Stuff-up from the start, and only marginally more his fault than anyone else’s because he’d been on the trigger-end of the operation. 

It was creeping close to ten in the morning. Lazy bugger. No wonder his sordid crime empire was leaving loose threads all over Italy, if he couldn’t even wake up on time. James rocked back on his heels to keep his legs from falling asleep, and went back to waiting. It was then that he felt it. Just a little pulse, an unpleasant reminder that he was human, rising up from his bladder. Bloody hell. Now was not convenient.

They were woken by a telephone call from the front desk around half past ten, and for twenty minutes all hell broke loose: they’d overslept, get your clothes on, you little whore, we need to get out. His Italian stretched that far, at least. Scruffy and disheveled, he heard the door click behind them and the pound of feet growing fainter down the corridor. Carefully, he eased himself out of the wardrobe, scanned the room, and began searching.

He found the documents, and the backup copy. Mafia. Inexplicably reliant on paperwork. He lifted the pen-drive blu-tacked behind the bathroom mirror, but it was most likely inconsequential. They really did prefer the 20th century method, poor bastards. Which was why they were forever being caught when they moved outside their remit. And there it was: weapons transport, from some dodgy factory in the Midlands, all the way to Turkey, and on to Syria. He slipped the dossier into his coat, locked the door behind him, and was back out into the mid-morning sunshine by just past eleven.

The sun was gorgeous, bouncing off the whitewashed houses and deepening the shadow down narrow side streets. He rolled up his shirtsleeves. Ahead, the sea was a twinkling sheet of green. Maybe he’d swim, later. His bladder gave another little twinge, more insistent this time. He’d gone up to their room straight from the bar: a measured evening of watching them, drinking, idly working the room. The drinks had begun to make themselves felt. He thought about childhoods on the coast, the North Sea blue as the Mediterranean, but shockingly cold. The way his bladder would spasm with shock, spool out warmth around him as he swam. He felt his cock stir beneath his fly. 

Jogging up the stairs, he scanned his hand on the front door sensor (sweet old MI6, thinking biometric scanners on a holiday villa were unobtrusive) and entered the cool darkness of the house. He’d dump the dossier first, then, finally, get a moment to himself. The pull of his bladder had become a steady, insistent burn.

‘007’

He span round, gun already half-drawn. At the long table in the kitchen, surrounded by hardware that looked complex and expensive, someone was sitting at a laptop, typing.

‘Q.’ His voice was warm. Professionally so, although he was fairly certain that the villa was empty. Swimming, doubtless, or else racing down the cliff-side roads at diplomatic speeds. They’d all been waiting for his Intel: might as well take down-time whilst they could. 

‘You weren’t expected here until tomorrow’. He dropped the dossier on the table, stood just behind Q’s seat, ran his fingers, gently but insistently, through his hair.

Q sighed, floppily. ‘M told me to piss off over here, more or less. Two Valium in my in-tray. Made the flight rather lovely, actually. All the…clouds, and things.’

As he said it, Bond’s bladder throbbed in sympathy. Oh, God, soon. Last time he’d needed to piss this badly, he’d been on the top of the midi-Pyrenees with a broken helicopter and an irate Russian diplomat. The sweet pulse of his cock suggested, gently, that this situation was considerably more favourable.

Q let his head drop back onto James’ stomach, enjoying the feeling of fingers through his hair. He was still a bit loopy, still, voice lacking his usual cut-glass precision, Valium still making the world butter-soft at the edges. 

‘Its nice to see you’. James murmured it quietly down at him. ‘Want to look through the dossier?’ Not that he was keen to start, particularly. Satellite interruption, Q had said on the phone. Blowing up supply lines. All they needed was timings, coordinated – all in the papers. Two days max, Q had said, and then Bond could eliminate the target and they could all go home, to berate MI5 about their clearly ineffective anti-gun running efforts.

Q’s eyes were big and glossy. His mouth was curved into a soft smile. ‘Let me make you coffee, James. You’ve been awake for so many hours’ – he gestured expansively – and then we can have a look’.

Coffee. Christ. He’d better – He moved to walk down the corridor to the bathroom, but Q’s hands tightened in his shirt , and he made a sleepy little whimper that went straight to Bond’s crotch. 

‘Don’t move, 007. Please. I’ve… missed you.’

They were well behaved on mission, generally. Nothing but professional, save the occasional wink or brush of hands when everyone else in Q-Branch was heads-down in some disaster. But Q looked at him with such plaintive desire that there was nothing he could do but bend down to kiss him. 

As he bent, he felt his bladder pulse again. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He really must – 

And then Q let his hands drop, span round on the bench so that he was facing Bond, placed his hands on Bond’s thighs, looked up at him.

‘What is it?’

‘What is what?’

Q raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re fidgeting’.

‘You’re woozy.’

‘Woozy but not blind. They didn’t teach you to stand like that in Her Majesty’s Navy’.

And then Q’s eyes grew, and his breath stopped somewhere up his windpipe and hitched, and his warm hands on Bond’s thighs tightened, fractionally.

‘You… Do you?’ His tone turned breathless. ‘James, do you…?’ He pinked, the blush spreading high onto his cheekbones. His mouth moved, but couldn’t get the sound out. 

He looked absolutely delectable, hair soft and smelling of shampoo, airport, and heat. Sweet beautiful genius, his lips wet and pink where he’d licked them.

James wondered if Q can feel his cock jump, see it. He wondered if he could smell his arousal.

Catching Q’s eye, he saw his blush deepen, saw the tent in his grey trousers. ‘Yes’, and it comes out deeper, raspier than he’d meant it to. ‘I’m desperate. I’m absolutely bloody desperate for a piss’.

For a moment, Q sat frozen, until James vaguely, absently wondered if perhaps it only worked one way, if he’d misread something particular for something more general. But then Q exhaled softly, looking at Bond as if he has just handed him the world on a plate. His tongue flicked over his lower lip, wet it to a sheen, and he spidered one hand up from Bond’s thigh, placed it over the slight, taut bulge of his bladder, and pressed, firmly. Bond tried to stay still, didn’t manage. He squirmed, and somewhere in the back of his throat he made a slight, low noise.

‘Fuck, James’, Q breathed out and his eyes were sparkling. He looked, quite honestly, as if all of his Christmases had come at once. ‘You’re absolutely desperate, aren’t you?’

He looked up at James, pupils blown. His voice was wrecked, ragged. One hand kept up the pressure, the other hand taking Bond’s hand, running his thumbnail up and down between the two narrow bones of his wrist, sending a glitter of sparks all the way up his arm, as if his blood was singing.

‘Would you…. oh fuck…might you want to, perhaps…’

‘Q’, Bond’s voice was raspy, desperate at the edges, but he kept it level, kept his eyes locked on Q, who was running his bottom lip over his teeth in a way that made James weak at the knees. ‘You’re going to stand up, go and kneel down in bathroom, take off anything you don’t want wet.’

To his credit, Q managed a ‘yes’, and then only the very slightest pause before ‘sir’. He kept his eyes low. Q pushed himself to standing, millimeters away from Bond’s body. He was radiating heat. His breath was coming in little hitches. He was glowing, red and embarrassed and Bond was torn between spinning him round and bending him over the bench, protocol be damned, or taking him into the bathroom. And then he felt it. When Q removed his hand, the pressure somehow intensified, the relief of it making him almost piss. He was so hard, he couldn’t tell what the sudden wetness was. The material of his underwear clung to him, deliciously.

Q toed his shoes off, removed his shirt. He was pale underneath, a light dusting of freckles across his collarbone. The freckles suited him.

Another surge of desperation, and Bond felt a heat running through his cock and almost doubled over. The sharpness of half pleasure, half discomfort.

He paused for a second in the doorway. Q was kneeling on the dark bathmat, head bowed. The cream-pink marble of the bathroom made the blush across his face seem even more delicate.

Bond walked over to him, slow and silent. He could tell from the ripple of Q’s shoulders that his eyes were closed, that he was judging Bond’s proximity by a thickening of the air. That, in this headspace, he would let Bond do whatever he wanted. Bond was almost blinded by it: his beautiful, filthy, delicious Quartermaster.  
Christ, he was fucking desperate. At this rate, he was going to piss himself. At this rate, he’d be the one tipping the drycleaners an exorbitant amount.

He stepped toward Q, cock hard, slippery with precum already, and lifted Q’s chin with one hand, swiping his cock over Q’s lips. His tongue darted out, a desperate noise at the back of his throat, but Bond pulled back, stood so that his cock was aimed squarely over Q’s delicious freckles.

He was so desperate now, clinging on with the last strands of his self control, urgency rippling through his body, bringing him out in a sweat. He bent his head down toward Q’s. 

‘Fuck, I’m desperate. Q, I’m going to piss. I’ve been holding it since this morning and I’m so, so full. It’s going to absolutely soak you, pet. Its going to go everywhere.’

Q leant forward, trying to press as much of himself against Bond’s body as he could. His movement jolted Bond’s cock, gently, and that’s it. He hissed as the heat ran through him, and he knew that this was it: he couldn’t hold it. He was going to let go, he was going to piss all over his beautiful Q. Instinctively, he pulled his hand through Q’s hair, tugged sharply, so that he was staring straight into Q’s eyes as he finally let go.

As the first drops fell over Q’s collarbones, ran in rivulets down his stomach and began to pool darkly onto the waistband of his trousers, Q’s eyes fell closed again, and he made a small, trapped humming noise in the back of his throat, but Bond yanked his hair, sharply.

‘Look at me, pet. I want you to look at me whilst I piss on you. Do you like that? Do you like feeling it, so hot, all down your front?’ He felt dizzy with the relief of it; dizzier still with the arousal pulsing through his veins. He could hear pounding in his ears. He wonders if this might be the most turned on he’s ever been in his life. Q looked like a statue, something otherworldly, but alive, and panting, and absolutely filthy.

Q could barely get the words out: ‘fuck, yes… James, please, more, please, more, fuck’. Its dirty nonsense, falling from his lips as he vibrates with pleasure.

Bond couldn’t have stopped, even if he’d wanted to. Bond’s piss was pooling round Q’s knees, soaking the bathmat. Such a mess. Such a dirty, beautiful mess, and Q, looked at him ragged and adoring, cock straining against his sodden trousers. He was stroking his hands down his wet trousers, touching the edges of the bathmat distractedly, as if he could not believe it. 

It was coming in waves: relief, pleasure, and disbelief that he could be so lucky. Christ, Q was the most depraved, most wonderful thing he’d ever seen. He could feel his bladder emptying, almost dizzy with the emptiness. Desperation had been replaced with urgent, throbbing arousal. He was almost too turned on to think. He wanted Q’s mouth. He wanted Q’s mouth but he also wanted to come all over him, mark him, make him even dirtier.

Q was trying so hard to be good, fingers fluttering at his own waistband. He was making a desperate mewling noise, a tiny noise of loss that the stream as stopped.

‘Please, James.’

As he opened his mouth to speak, Bond ran his cock over his lips, salty, slick. Pushed forward slowly, steadily. Q swallowed him down with a contented noise, licking around the head of his cock. His hands stayed where they were.

‘Fuck, Q, pet’, Bond breathed. The heat was incredible. The gentle lapping of Q’s tongue was enough to drive a man to distraction.

‘Good pet’, he said. He’d been worried that this might be too much, the faint salty traces of his piss, but the low whining Q was making, the way his eyes had rolled back, allowed him to luxuriate in the sensation, to let his eyes fall shut and his hips snap forward. Q swallowed him down seamlessly, keeps him there until Bond pulled back, pumps in again.

He wouldn’t last. He petted at Q’s head, encouraging him until his nose was pressed up against his suit trousers. Q’s little noises were increasing in volume, his throat swallowing Bond down, and he suddenly stiffened, went still. Bond pulled back, looking down in concern. Q’s eyes were bright, and he was blushing. 

‘James – I – oh god, I couldn’t….’

He had come. In his pants, like a naughty schoolboy. James could see a darker stain outlined against the sodden trouser fabric. The world suddenly dissolved around Bond, his head swimming. 

Holding Q’s hair he pushed back into his mouth, rough and feverish. Q pulled Bond’s hips in, desperately swallowing him, choking a little. His lips were spit-red, slick and tight around Bond’s cock.

‘Dirty little pet. Covered in my piss, couldn’t even wait for my hands on your cock. Messed in your pants like a naughty, dirty little slut, didn’t you. You feel so good around me, fuck, Q.’ He was close. He was so very close, and Q’s mouth was hot and tight and good and it would have been so fucking nice to come inside it, push his come in ropes down his throat. 

But instead, he pulled out. Touched himself, rough and quick, gazing down and Q’s wrecked, spit-messed, red-lipped face. 

And then Q realized what was going to happen, and tilted his head to look straight at him. ‘Please, James, please, now’.

Then the world went black and starry, and Bond’s focus narrowed down Q’s face, and he came with a gasp and a word that might have been Q’s name. He came so hard that it flecked in Q’s hair, covered his mouth in thick white ropes. He watched, weak-kneed and mesmerized, as Q licked his lips. He throbbed once more, decorating Q’s cheekbone, and then he was spent.

The floor was soaked. Q was soaked, and sticky, and wrecked. His suit trousers were ruined, his shirt damp. Bond bent down immediately, bundled Q into his arms. He was grinning, weak and blissed out. 

‘Did you enjoy that, pet?’ He knew they were going to have to get up, clean themselves, find something else to wear. Q had begun to goosebump, despite the warm air. He nodded into the crook of James’ neck.

Afterward, they sat on the terrace in the sun, James in shorts and a soft linen shirt that Q kept rubbing his face against, absently. The sea sparkled blue beneath them, and the villa was quiet. 

James was tracing patterns over the back of Q’s left hand. With his right, Q was already coordinating the necessary satellite strikes, albeit at around half his usual speed. 

‘Perhaps I should just keep you here’.

Q shot him a look: penetrating, inquisitive. ‘You’ve got to be in next Wednesday, haven’t you? Probation review.’

‘I could be back by Thursday. Don’t pretend you aren’t overdue some holiday.’

That caught the Quartermaster off guard. He looked at James sharply.

‘You needn’t…’

‘Quite. I needn’t do anything. What I would rather enjoy, however, is a long weekend here, with you, and the sea, and not a lot of clothing.’

Q paused for a second before turning to Bond, his eyes rather round and full. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm, loose: ‘You’d better be serious about the clothing.’ He nuzzled closer. ‘I don’t take holidays very often.’

‘Hmm. Disadvantage of being my partner, holidays. They’re always turfing me out on medical leave after missions.’

‘Partner, is it?’ Q looked at him over his sunglasses. ‘Well. If that’s how it is, perhaps you’d be so kind as to surrender my other hand, so I can finish this and take you to bed for half an hour before the others get back.’ 

James smiled. There would be time, once the sun had gone down and the others were in bed, to talk about it: the risks, the dangers, the fact that they’d probably have to keep separate flats for security purposes. The myriad difficult details that discouraged most of the people he’d ever loved from loving him. He looked over to Q, smiling as he delivered covert explosives orders to their friends in Turkey. Perhaps this time, it might be different.


End file.
